


Mens Rea

by doodnoice



Category: Bully (Video Games)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fingerfucking, Orgasm Control, PWP, Reader-Insert, Rough Sex, Sexual Content, reader - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:50:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5510789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodnoice/pseuds/doodnoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Being a police officer in the city of Los Santos meant facing a lot of criminals, and putting yourself in harm’s way for the sake of justice. But, after you’re injured during a shootout perpetrated by a powerful psychopath, you're left with scars and no livelihood. Luckily for you, an old childhood bully comes to your rescue.</p><p>[Gary Smith/Reader]<br/>Gift Fic for tumblr friend Cryptcombat</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mens Rea

**Author's Note:**

> -*

 

There is an overbearing sense of panic when a bullet whizzes by your ear, but you handle it well enough to at least not puke your second day on the job. Your field training officer—FTO—grabs your shoulder and yanks back, her blunt nails firmly digging into the rough cotton of your uniform until you’re completely hidden behind the body of the car, almost leaning into her chest as she reaches around you to grab and readjust your grip on your firearm.

“Like this,” she says before unlocking the safety with her thumb, worry etching her forehead in wrinkles, “God, don’t they teach you kids anything?”

You only stare at her, feeling dumb and sick, because you aren’t prepared for this. You’re supposed to be going on a routine patrol, nothing crazy, nothing strenuous—just like yesterday. You're a new officer, fresh out of the academy. Your FTO, Harris, doesn’t even trust you enough to let you drive, let alone shoot a gun, but here you are.

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you try to regain your composure, and press your back against the cool metal of the car, your hands trembling as you hold the gun in a ready position. You trained for this, right? Weeks and weeks of training and years of school, so why are you so nervous, now?

A bullet passes through the passenger window above you, shattering the thick glass in shards. You almost go to cover your head, but the fully loaded gun in your shaking hands stops you, and instead you flinch and tuck your chin into your chest. You feel sharp, small pieces of glass fall into your shirt through your collar, but ignore them as Harris grabs your shoulder, again gesturing behind her towards the shooters.

“We can’t let them get past this car,” she starts, “we have to hold out until SWAT gets here.”

Your eyes widen, “So, what are we supposed to do?” The question comes out harsh and whimpered, raw terror and panic lacing your words.

Harris gives you a hard stare, her eyes steeled with cold, callous command. Her authority washes your fear into shame. What are you scared of? Doing your job? Harris grabs your shoulder with her free hand and nods to the line of buildings in front of you. “There are civilians in those shops—children, helpless men and women—so, those shooters are not getting past this vehicle; do you understand?”

Even at a whisper, her voice rings clear. You take a deep breath, and frown, the dryness of your throat and tongue too thick to form words, but you nod, because that’s the only thing you can do.

Harris motions to her right with her gun before inching towards the trunk of the car, still squatting to keep cover despite the gunfire having gone quiet. “Remember, they don’t get past this car.”

Just as you’re about to take your own position, a shadow passes by the trunk, and you see him.

You open your mouth to scream, to warn Harris, but it’s too late. The first bullet passes through her forearm, the second through her head. Blood splatters everywhere, and you feel flecks of it hit your face. You tuck and dive towards the front of the car just as the man turns his attention to you and fires another shot, still advancing.

Twisting, you fall on your back, your knees bent slightly and your gun pointed towards the sky. Your heartbeat echoes in your ears as you fire several shots in the air attempting to give yourself time to regain your footing. But, you hear him coming around and ready yourself, aiming where his chest should be, but instead feel his hand grip your ankle and drag you forward.

Panicking, you shoot at his arm and miss. You can’t even get out another shot, because he twists your foot, snapping your ankle like a twig. You scream, catching glimpses of the way your foot falls flatly to the side, your vision hazy as the pain rackets through you, giving him just enough time to wrestle the gun out of your hand, and straddle your hips.

You don’t even realize it, but you’re crying and contorting on the ground. The Man smiles and shushes you, as a father would a petulant child. “It’s alright, shh…” he whispers, “everything is going to be alright.”

His words are anything, but comforting, because you can smell and feel him on top of you, the sticky smell of oily cologne, the smooth texture of an expensive suit ruined by blood and sweat. But it’s his face that sets him apart from the rest of the psychopaths, his vicious grin and dark eyes only emphasized by the pink latex of an ugly, worn pig mask.

The man’s eyes don’t leave yours, choosing to watch you with hawk-like temperance, his award-winning smile vaguely familiar, but you don’t dwell on it. You refuse to have your last thoughts be him, pinning you to the cold street. You struggle one last time, like an animal trapped in a cage, but it’s no use. He’s toying with you. You think about the ocean.

Going still, the man ‘tsks’ and presses the muzzle of his warm gun into your chest, where your heart is. “You’re not going to cry anymore, you’re not going to struggle and beg me to spare you?”

You focus on remembering the colors of the sea, the blues and greens and the light spilling warmth over your bare skin. The man grabs your throat and clenches his fingers, the heel of his palm pressing hard against your windpipe, you struggle to breath.

“You’re not going to ‘oink’, little piggy?” the man mocks. Your peace is gone. There’s nothing left. You try to spit in his face, but it comes out as more of a sputter. He smiles. “Was that an ‘oink’?” he loosens his grip just enough for you to gasp and muster up your final words.

“Fuck you.” His hand is back to restricting you, cutting your air off completely.

His grin falters the smallest bit, so he pushes the gun into your chest harder, bruising the tender flesh there. “You should have played along.”

Bang! Bang!

-

A waiter clears his throat, bringing you out of your thoughts. You look at him, but don’t really see him, your mind still stuck six months behind you with a homicide case ruled an accident and your career termination ruled lawful.

“Yes?” you ask, trying to sound unfazed despite the shaking in your hands. You fold them in front of you and give the waiter a pleasant, although forced smile.

You’re not sure if he notices or even cares, but he smiles back all the same, nodding to the coffee pitcher in his hands and looking at the empty mug sitting beside your cold, untouched breakfast, “Would you like a refill, Miss?”

“Yes, thank you.” You say, watching the way the coffee ripples so neatly in the cup. You don’t even realize the waiter is gone until you hear someone pull up a chair to your table.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

And you go to say “yes”, but who it is surprises you—an old high school tormentor, looking well-fed and handsomely dressed, and what a time for him to show up, here, in this nondescript café to probably ridicule you for old time’s sake. Because, why else would he be talking to you, right now?

“Hello, Gary.” You say, trying to be an adult, since you know about a thousand and one other words you would rather call him.

Gary smiles, and you feel the word “bastard” form on your lips. The urge is only made worse when he rests his elbows on the table and leans forward, “And here I was worrying you wouldn’t remember me…” he tilts his head to the side, that smug smirk still plastered on his face like he knows something about you. “So, how’s unemployment treating you?”

“Excuse me?” Your brows knit, but you can’t say you’re completely surprised; even in school, Gary knew more about you than you could ever know about him.

“Oh, excuse my rudeness.” He doesn’t sound remorseful at all, but he continues anyway as if he is, “I saw the newspapers way back in June—I mean, who didn’t? The headlines were pretty catchy after all. I especially liked ‘policewoman kills superior in fit of jealous rage—walks free’.”

“What the hell do you want, Gary?”

Gary scoffs, “Just wanted to chat with an old friend, offer a helping hand, maybe settle a score—squash some bugs.”

You stare at him, is he implying what you think he’s implying? “I’m not sure I understand..?”

“Let’s just say, I’m a damn good exterminator, and I want to pay you back for all those mean things I said about your mother freshman year.”

“And why would you want to do that?” you ask, “What could possibly compel you to want to help me out?”

Gary shrugs, “’Tis the season. Besides, who better to waste my talents on than the bastard who hurt my favorite pet.”

“Don’t call me that.” You frown, but feel your heartbeat quicken pace. The prospect of revenge sounds so sweet, but you’re not sure you could bring yourself to actually commit to it. Every life was precious, wasn’t it?

But then, why did your FTO Harris die without justice? Why did you lose your job and any future occupations when you were the victim? Life wasn’t fair, but maybe people like Gary were trying to make it be.

No. Gary wasn’t a good guy, he did things for his own benefit, you learned that well enough when he got you kicked out of Bullworth two months before you moved onto the next grade.

You look at Gary, really look at him and then nod, “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” Gary says, spinning a straw on the table as if you were both talking about something as casual as the weather. “Just a small price.”

“I don’t have any money.” You mumble, feeling your gut twist in shame.

Gary grins and lifts your chin with the edge of his knuckle, “No, of course you don’t. But, I need a secretary who can keep her mouth shut. Think you can do that?”

“For how long?”

“Two weeks tops—room and board, the whole she-bang--, and then, if you like it, for however long you want to.” And the deal sounds good, at least, way better than not having any job or place to stay at all, which is about where you will be two days from now.

“Okay,” you say, sitting back down before looking strangely at Gary as he offers his hand. You shake it. “It’s a deal.”

 

**-***

 

Three weeks later, you find yourself with your back pressed into Gary’s mattress, aching and wet as he grinds against you.

You moan, bucking your hips into his as he trails kisses down your neck, occasionally stopping to bite and suck, marking you as his with hickeys and love bites. Your legs hitch up around Gary's waist higher, until your wetness slides against the tented curve of his black dress pants. "Gary..." you whine, rotating your hips up into his, your nails digging into the fabric of his suit jacket, desperately clamoring to his every move.

"You've been waiting for this, haven't you?" Gary groans, grabbing your hip with one hand to pull you closer, "Just begging for me to fuck you..." slipping his other hand up your thighs, Gary runs his fingers between your lower lips, and hums, pleased at how wet you are, "Fuck, you're already ready, and I haven't even really touched you yet..."

The slickness of your heat making it so easy for Gary to slip two fingers up to the third knuckle into you, pressing up and curling them until you're arching underneath him, your hips moving in a jerky, uneven rhythm as you feel that heat inside of you build and build, until you're crying out Gary's name and coming around his fingers, your juices dripping down your thighs.

Gary watches you with pupils blown wide with lust, your curves and smooth skin glistening with sweat. Bringing his fingers to his mouth, Gary meets your gaze and licks his digits clean, smirking when you whimper and tug at his belt loop, your face flushed a beautiful red. With a grin, Gary complies with your silent wish and removes his clothes, taking off his jacket and tie first, watching as you kept in line his every action. When he finally pulls down his boxers, you practically sob, and that's when Gary catches the slight movement of your lithe fingers rubbing yourself.

Before you can even blink, Gary yanks your hand away from yourself and grabs your thigh, the weeping head of his cock lining up with your heat. And Gary wants to tease you more, wants to keep you on that edge of desire and pleasure until you're screaming, desperate and wanton against him, but he can't take it anymore, he needs you right now.

Gary sinks into you and groans, "You're so tight." And when his thumb brushes over your clit, his pace rough and fast, you try to hold back your screams, but Gary is having none of it. Grabbing your wrists and pinning them above your, leaving you to do nothing but bite your lip. Gary smirks, not one to be defied, and gives a sudden thrust, harder than the rest, into you, catching you by surprise and drawing a delicious gasp from your bruised, kiss swollen lips.

You cry out his name, writhing and pleading as he fucks you harder, his thrusts becoming quicker and more urgent the louder you say his name. "I'm so close, Gary, please..!" you mewl, fingers digging harshly into the sheets beneath you for lack of anything else to hang onto.

"Already?" Gary chuckles, slowing his original pace to something more methodical; hard and rough, but oh, so very deep. And Gary's close, too, he can feel it as a tender throb that shoots down his cock every time you clench around him or moan his name. Gary smirks when you arch up into him, your mouth hanging open and a plea on your lips. "Come for me." he says, and you do, convulsing around him, silently rolling your hips into his. And it's the way you're gripping him, all over and everywhere, the way you smell and look as you're coming that does him in.

 

Gary gives one last thrust into you before he stills, his length so deep and full inside of you that you feel his hot seed spill out of your aching heat. When the pleasure subsides, there's a dull, bliss filled buzz that follows, and Gary doesn't let go of you, instead, opting to pull a messy sheet over your warm bodies, his arms encasing you with a sense of safety and comfort.

And it's strange, knowing who Gary is and what he does that you can feel this way. But it's in these moments, the quiet, rare moments that you find that even someone as cold and callous as Gary Smith is capable of intimacy. It just takes some time to show it.

**Author's Note:**

> Fun Trivia: I had a hell of a time editing and writing this piece. Like, seriously, shit was super difficult! I think it's probably because I haven't written Gary in so long, but I went through five drafts and I'm still not really satisfied with it (smut is hard). The first draft was around ten pages long. Second draft was spent cutting and re-writing and trying to fit the prompt into the smut (or the smut into the prompt), because we're all on the naughty list today, so that's what I'm giving for Christmas. 
> 
> Hopefully, it's up to par, Cryco (is it ok if I shorten your name like that? I think it sounds cool, but then again, it's like 1 am, so...) Anyway, have a good holiday! Maybe your gifts be fun and your day naughty. Or the reverse of that, depending on what you're up to. Okay, I'm going to shut up and go to bed, now.


End file.
